Friday, April 5

>>  Waiting For You

Girl at the 42nd Street/Grand Central station waiting for the 4/5/6 trains. 1:59AM.

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Thursday, April 4

>>  I Like Loud Music

01 FATBOY SLIM [the rockafeller skank]
02 PRODIGY [firestarter]
03 PIGEONHED & LO-FIDELITY ALLSTARS [battleflag]
04 ASIAN DUB FOUNDATION [naxalite]
05 MANSUN & 808 STATE [skin up pin up]
06 U.N.K.L.E. [guns blazing (drums of death, part i)]
07 FILTER & THE CRYSTAL METHOD [trip like i do]
08 PRODIGY [breathe]
09 STABBING WESTWARD & WINK [torn apart]
10 JUNGLE BROTHERS [jungle brother (aphrodite mix)]
11 DELTRON 3030 [things you can do]
12 SYSTEM OF A DOWN [chop suey]

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Tuesday, April 2

>>  An Excercise in Nostalgia

The previous post was an excercise in nostalgia. Sometime in the early months of 1999, Nick Britton posted a series of journal entries in which he fooled his readers into believing he had flown off to New Zealand at a second's heartbeat. Some of his reading populace was heartbroken, no doubt, and was calling for his return. Others wished him a good trip.

In June of the same year, I came to conclude the experimental journal (found in Version 1.0) that I had run for the past one and a half years. But I felt that for many of my readers who were loyal to an anonymous face, understanding the psyche behind the writer was just an important part. For that, I published Nick's New Zealand entries in order to "fool" people. To see if they would realize it wasn't me.

Some did and some didn't. Some even recognized it was Nick's. It was something I had to do then and had to do now, if only because it shows one thing: Writing anonymously gives you a level of credibility that is highly insubstantial. When your readers know you, it's a completely different story.

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Monday, April 1

>>  Next Stop: Wonderland

It's a cloudy 5:30PM here in Wellington, New Zealand. Why am I in New Zealand, you ask? Well, I was sitting in my apartment, and I just got all wrapped up in how things were spiraling downwards and at some point I just snapped. I packed up my bag with some clothes, a few CDs, a couple of books and a notebook. I withdrew all my money from my checking and savings accounts. A friend of mine gave me a ride up to the airport, and I took a flight out of there to Los Angeles. Then from there,it was a long, exhausting flight to Auckland, New Zealand. I was totally disoriented when I arrived. I didn't even notice that my bag never came down the little belt. I just sat there and waited and waited. For weeks it seemed. Finally, my poor green bag came sliding down, exhausted in its own right from its own journey.

So, here I was in the middle of a foreign airport far away from home. I was so confused, so tired. I didn't even know what time it was. People were walking back and forth around me, not noticing the scared little brown kid in the middle of the airport.

I eventually got myself together and rented a car—a 1997 Honda Civic, much like the one my roommate used to own that one of my friends now drives. Thank god for credit cards. And then I tried to buy some food. This proved to be a hassle, because New Zealanders do not use American dollars for some reason. I, therefore, had to exchange the remaining funds I had into New Zealand dollars, which was odd. Finally, I was in my car and I looked up to the cloudy sky and said, Oh my god, I did it.

>>

Now I'm here in a library on the outskirts of Wellington. Computer usage is free, so I couldn't help but take advantage of it and tell you guys about my decision.

New Zealand is the most amazing place on earth. Nice people, nice weather, nice streets, nice buildings, nice everything. the antithesis of New York City, in a way.

My writing will continue. From Wellington, New Zealand, however.

It still feels like a dream.

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Sunday, March 31

>>  A Good, Last Sunday of March

Something feels perfect about today. I wish more days could be like this.

>>

I came across an absolutely amazing personal story titled "Space Cake" on the Amsterdam Stories site. It fit my escapist tendencies perfectly, mixing in a bit of Trainspotting with a dose of healthy touristy paranoia. It starts off...

I’m on a train to Paris. Returning home. I’ve just spent two days in Amsterdam doing a drug deal. I’m an expatriate waster, the kind without papers and illegal substances in my pockets. I support myself passing off a few pills and powders to the extremely wealthy students who go to the American University of Paris.

And continues to subtly develop into an event of sorts. The part about the Canadian Scott is especially clever. And this, as it seems, is a true story.

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